Accursed Wretch
by MadnessJones
Summary: A stolen baby, and a devil left in its place. This was Sister Gudule's plight. She still had hope for her daughter however, but she knew it would come at a great cost: raising the demon baby as her own. AKA what if Sister Gudule raised Quasimodo?
1. The Changeling

_Author's Notes: This story was burning in my brain and I just _had_ to get started on it! I don't know why, but the thought of all the different places Quasimodo could've ended up instead of Notre Dame fascinates me. Also, I think Sister Gudule is probably the most underrated character in the entire novel. Her story was so tragic, yet only one movie version even attempted to kind-of include it. I gotta warn you though, this will not be a fluffy fic. I'm going to do my best to keep the tone of the novel and the characters' personalities the same. This story is to explore what would have most likely happened if Gudule had chosen to raise Quasimodo when he was left in her home, and how this would have changed both of their lives and the story. Thank you for checking this fanfic out, especially since this is located in the barely visited "book" section of FF :)_

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Chapter 1

The Changeling

The year was 1466 in the city of Reims, located in France. There was much commotion earlier that day as many townspeople went out to see the gypsies that had come to town in a great caravan the day before. Many of these gullible people went to those claiming to be seers, able to tell the futures of themselves and their children. Of course each story was more outlandish than the last, with some children being declared noblemen and others being declared rich and happy. That alone should've told everyone this was a scam, but as long as _their_ children's glorious future was the truth they didn't care if everyone else was being bamboozled.

Two of the gypsy women behind the scheme had more than one reason to concoct the fraudulent performance. One was that they could play off their perceived exotic nature to make money off the villagers. Sure, these lies kept the Romani women out of normal society, but if they couldn't stop the rumors of witchcraft from spreading then at least they should be able to use it to their advantage. The other reason however was a lot more sinister.

Two days prior the younger woman's sister died, and the dead woman had left behind a child. This was no ordinary child however, but rather one with a frightful appearance that made it all too noticeable wherever the caravan went. The boy's mother had kept the baby even though he had been the product of the poor woman being raped by some English archer that felt himself above the law. The other gypsies had feared having the child with them would incite a riot on the part of the French, but the mother had said she loved her son and that he would make a profitable beggar when he grew up. That had been enough to placate the others in that moment.

Now, however, the woman's younger sister was left alone with the little monster, and she felt it the cruelest irony. She and her husband had been trying to conceive a baby for years, and they finally had a little girl two months ago. The baby however died of the same illness that took the boy's mother, and the young gypsy woman was left without her baby girl and saddled with a misshapen boy that would probably get them all killed. It was enough to make the young woman believe her family was cursed.

This young Romani girl was named Jofranka and her companion was an older woman named Violca. These two women had left their camp after the show and were traveling down the worn down roads of Reims with purpose. They were following one of the French women that had come to them to learn of her baby daughter's future. This woman was a mother of great skill and pride, and her daughter had to be the prettiest little tot in all of France. The Romani women believed the Frenchwoman was someone of means when they saw the beautiful embroidered clothes and shoes adorning the baby girl, and were actually a bit surprised when they saw the modest house the woman lived in, alone.

"She has no husband," Jofranka said sadly.

"Good," Violca replied gruffly, "That means no one to guard the house. All we have to do is wait for our chance to make the switch. These French louts leave their babies unattended all the time. Having homes such as this one makes them feel safe, like no one can touch them."

Jofranka looked down at the hunchbacked child asleep in her arms, and knew that she was disrespecting her sister's memory. She wondered if she was angering the woman's spirit, but to be fair she had no choice. It was the boy or the entire tribe, and Jofranka couldn't risk an angry mob descending on her people. Besides, they had chosen the best mother in France, a woman that had turned her baby into a princess. Surely a woman with such a kind heart would care for her sister's son.

As it turned out the women only had to wait half an hour before their opportunity came. The mother left the house to talk to her neighbors across the street, and she didn't bother to take the baby girl with her. The gypsies left the tree they were hiding behind and quickly made their way through the open door of the house.

The house was small, only two rooms, and surprisingly not well furnished. In fact, it looked even more sparse than most of the tents in their caravan. One thing was definitely colorful about this place though, and that was the baby clothes surrounding the plain straw sleeping mat. They were all silky and covered with embroidery and ribbons. Violca started stuffing the clothes into her satchel, and Jofranka set the boy down on the floor before picking up the baby girl.

"She's beautiful," Jofranka sighed lovingly, "She looks so much like my poor Isabella. She is only a few months older than Isabella would be now."

"Don't dawdle," Violca warned, "We have to get back to camp and prepare to leave this place. There's no way we'll be able to stay after this."

Just then, the little boy awoke and looked around at the strange new place. He looked up at the two women, his aunt and his godmother, and tilted his head curiously.

"Where we?" He asked, his grasp on language not great despite his advanced age of 4 years.

"Stay here," Jofranka ordered him without explaining.

"But where?" He asked again, beginning to get an odd feeling about this.

The boy looked at the two women and saw that his aunt was holding a baby. That was weird. She didn't have a baby anymore. Why did his Aunt Jofranka look so upset? He thought she liked babies. Was it because this place looked weird? Had they been arrested? Was he in jail?

The two women went to leave, but before they did Jofranka stopped. She knew stealing this child made her a horrible person, and that this Frenchwoman had done nothing to her. She needed this baby though, and her heart couldn't leave this little love behind. She looked down at the little embroidered shoes, and plucked one of them off the baby's tiny foot before setting it on the sleeping mat. If she left something behind, then the girl could one day find her real mother. If the girl was pure of heart and remained a virgin, she would be able to find her true family again. At least, that was what was told to her tribe for as long as anyone could remember.

"Auntie?" The boy called again.

"Don't leave this room," Jofranka said curtly before dashing away with Violca and the baby.

As the two women left Violca said to Jofranka "You know they'll probably burn him, right?"

"Maybe not," Jofranka tried to convince herself, "Even if they do, at least they won't find us. Some lame beggars and blind men elicit sympathy, but that boy would only grow up to be hanged. He has one eye instead of none, and he has crooked legs instead of useless legs. He would only cause us problems. This baby however, she will be very good for our people. Look at these little feet. How they will dance when she is older! Look at those eyes. How many coins they will bring! She is perfect. No one would want to harm this gentle creature."

* * *

The little boy meanwhile was left all alone in the strange room. He crawled around for a bit, since walking was very difficult with his bandy legs. There wasn't much in this house. There was a hearthstone, and there was a straw mattress. There was a gold cross hanging from a chain on the wall. This place belonged to the bad people that lived in the town. The boy knew of them well, and knew that if they weren't happy that they killed people like him.

Despite only being 4 years old, he knew he was different. He knew his people liked to travel, while townies did not. Worse than that though, he knew he was very ugly and that townies killed ugly children like him. His hunched back, his tiny legs, and his missing eye with the large wart over it marked him as evil in their eyes. His mother had been clear that he should never leave the camp lest he be taken by these bad people. Now he was alone in one of their houses, and his auntie was nowhere in sight. He pulled at his red hair nervously, and licked his teeth with his tongue. He was sure he was trapped.

The boy heard someone come into the house and enter another room. _Oh good, that must be Auntie and Madam Violca, _he thought_. _He supposed they probably had to tend the baby before they came back for him, and now he would go home safe and sound. He didn't know what he had been worried about.

When the woman entered the room however, it wasn't his Auntie Jofranka. It was a pale woman with silky brown hair and a beautiful embroidered dress. He looked up at her blankly, and the woman let out a blood curdling scream!

The boy covered his ears, and then asked her where Jofranka was. She just stared at him with wild crazed eyes, bloodshot eyes that had clearly been crying moments before. She screamed something at him that he didn't understand. The boy only spoke Romani, and this woman was speaking French. He could tell from the way she gestured and screamed however that he was in trouble. She was going to hurt him. She might even kill him.

The boy tried to get up to walk away, but his poor weak legs gave out on him. It was clear then that there was no way out. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. He started to cry out of his one good eye then. The townies had caught him, and he was going to be hurt.

* * *

Paquette La Chantefleurie was beside herself as she held the little shoe left behind by her child's kidnappers. The gypsies had vanished into a puff of smoke, into thin air! The rains that had come only an hour before had washed away their cart tracks. Her child was gone, eaten up by those gypsy heathens! Her poor dear little Agnes had been taken, and left in her place was a tiny misshapen monster!

It was nighttime now, and Paquette's heart had finally stopped beating wildly in her chest. Oh, if only it could stop beating altogether. Her neighbor had gone to the local abbey, and a bishop from Notre Dame in Paris happened to be visiting. The bishop would be there soon to help her take away the demon child, but then she would be left all alone; her Agnes likely cooked on some pagan's pyre for their witches' sabbath. Paquette's friends had come to console her, but most didn't stay when they saw the monster crawling on the floor. She couldn't blame them. It truly was a frightful thing to look at.

Paquette felt a tug at the hem of her dress, and instinctively she believed it to be her little Agnes returned to her once more. She smiled and started to pick up the baby, only to see it was the demon beckoning her attention.

"Ah! Oh, why must you torment me, vile devil?" Paquette screeched at the little monster, and the boy shrunk back in fear of her.

Paquette sighed, at a loss for what to do. At first she had feared Agnes had been magically transformed into this deformed creature. She had actually had to check to see if the monster was indeed a girl, and upon seeing it was not Paquette actually sighed in relief; knowing this was in fact not Agnes. That relief had turned to grief again when she realized that Agnes had probably been slaughtered by the gypsies. Why, oh why, did she ever go anywhere near that gypsy camp?

The boy said something unintelligible to Paquette, and despite not wanting to she looked at it. The child's protruding lip was quivering and he was holding his stomach. He was clearly hungry.

"What do you want from me, monster?" Paquette hissed bitterly, "First you take my child and now you would take my bread?"

Her anger couldn't last however under the assault of such a tiny pleading thing. Paquette was still a mother after all, even if she had lost the only child in the world that mattered to her. The boy might be a demon, but it was certainly convincing at acting like a child.

Paquette went to the cupboard in the other room and came back with a slice of stale bread. It was all she had left, but she didn't exactly feel like eating anymore anyway. She handed the bread to the boy, and he greedily ate it without looking at her. Just as well, as she didn't want that grimace staring at her anyway.

"They'll probably burn you," Paquette said to the child even though he couldn't understand her, "Serves you right, and serves your mother right too. If my Agnes is to be burned for their witches' sabbath then it's only fair you should burn too. An eye for an eye, after all."

The boy then looked up at her, realizing he was being addressed. He tilted his head, not knowing what she was saying but doing his best to devine what she wanted to tell him.

"How could God do this to me?" Paquette asked morosely, "I know I haven't exactly been a good person. I've given my body over for both love and money. I know that. I know I'm a hard person to love. My parents were all I had, and when they died I turned to men. No matter how I devoted myself however none of them ever loved me. Most of the people in this town jeer at me. I've been publicly shamed more than once for my unsavory profession. I thought I would die alone in this world, but then I was blessed with a child, with my precious beautiful Agnes. She's my everything, and now, she's gone. _Gone_!"

Paquette then started crying uncontrollably into her hands. She had nothing left, no one loved her. All that she had ever cared about in this world had been taken from her. She could pray for the soul of her lost baby girl, but other than that she had nothing left in this world she could do, no purpose left. She had nothing. She _was_ nothing. Nothing but a harlot that no one wanted anymore.

Suddenly she felt something on her calf, and saw that the demon child was hugging her leg and looking up at her sadly. At least, she thought that look was sadness. It was hard to tell on such a disfigured face.

"Why must you haunt me, creature?" Paquette asked, but with a lighter tone than she had used before, "Feeling better since you ate, boy? My goodness, what rags those gypsies put you in! You look like a monkey escaping a burlap sack, you know that? Those awful people, can't even try to make their dark minions look appealing."

The boy smiled obliviously up at her, showing off a few baby teeth that were already yellow and grey with rot. He didn't know what she was saying to him, but he heard that her tone wasn't as sad or as harsh as before, so he assumed she was happy now.

The front door opened then, and the bishop of Paris arrived with two of his monks. Paquette felt stingy for only having a single candle on in the room. She could barely see anything of the monks with their hoods up, making the scene look like something gloomy and foreboding. The boy whimpered and tried to hide under her skirt, which made Paquette wince at having that horrible creature so close to her clawing at her bare legs.

"You are the woman known as Paquette La Chantefleurie?" The bishop asked in a kindly voice.

"Yes, father," Paquette answered nervously, "Has there been any word on the gypsies that took my child? Please sir, anything at all?"

"I'm sorry, but no," The bishop regretfully replied, "They are likely keeping to the backroads. The local archers are still searching for them, but at this point it looks unlikely that the caravan will be found."

"_Oh_!" Paquette moaned as she sunk to her knees, "My child! My baby! How could I have left her _alone_?!"

Paquette then screamed and began to beat the ground with her fists. The boy, who had backed away from the distraught woman, looked up at the clergymen in fear. He knew what this likely meant. They would blame him for upsetting the woman. They would hurt him. Torture him. Lock him away in a room until it was time to set him on fire. The boy was too young to completely understand death, but he was at the perfect age to understand that intense pain was something to avoid at all costs.

"We should take the child away," The bishop said to his assistants, "The poor woman has suffered so much. Having this reminder around will only serve to drive her mad."

Paquette was so lost in her grief that she didn't even notice the men walk past her. She stared down at the ground and at the little shoe she had dropped. It was all that was left of her daughter. She would never again feel those tiny feet between her fingers. She would never again hear that bubbly laugh, see those pretty brown eyes, or pinch those rosey cheeks. Her baby was gone, and that singular thought refused to loosen its grip on her mind.

Her grim reverie was broken however when she heard a piercing scream coming from behind her. She turned around where she was kneeling and saw the hunchbacked child trying to break free of the grasp of the bishop. It was almost comical to see such a dignified looking man flounder around with the slippery form of a disheveled demon child. The monks helped to hold the child back, and he cried for all he was worth as his arms reached out for Paquette La Chantefleurie.

"Zounds! This thing is pretty strong for a crippled child!" One monk exclaimed.

"Maybe it really _is_ a demon," The other one commented.

"Hurry! We must get him to the carriage," The bishop ordered as he continued to hold firm to the struggling toddler.

"Wait!" Paquette shouted before she could stop herself.

Everyone stopped and looked at her. She didn't know why she had stopped them. She wanted the demon gone. She wanted to be left alone to mourn for her lost little lamb. That was what she wanted, but another thought had crossed her grief-stricken mind. Perhaps if she cared for the monster, perhaps if she proved herself worthy, then God might give her back her sweet little Agnes. It was the only chance she had left.

"Yes, La Chantefleurie?" The bishop asked patiently.

"I'll...I'll take him," Paquette forced herself to say, "I-I'll...adopt...this child."

"Are you certain, mademoiselle?" The bishop asked in mild surprise.

"Yes, father," Paquette nodded quickly, though her mind was screaming 'NO!'

The bishop was skeptical, but he knew placing the child on the foundling table at Notre Dame probably wouldn't yield any better results. More than likely it would end with no one taking the child and a mob of yokels lynching the poor unfortunate boy. He didn't personally know Paquette La Chantefleurie, but he had heard from others in Reims what a good mother she was and how kind she was to others. If her heart was big enough to raise the child of those that had done her wrong, then clearly she was the perfect choice.

The bishop handed the child back to Paquette La Chantefleurie, and the boy instantly clung to her neck for all he was worth and hid his face from the monks. Paquette felt a little sick at actually holding the little misshapen ape, but nonetheless she patted the boy's back to comfort him; an instinctive move on her part.

As the clergymen left and she was once again alone with the boy one thought kept running through her mind: _What have I done?_


	2. A Monster In Paris

_Author's Notes: I couldn't sleep last night, so I wrote a new chapter for this obscure little fic. There were more ideas I wanted to incorporate in this chapter, but the flow didn't allow for it so they'll have to wait until the next chapter. Thank you to those few of you who are reading this story. I hope you like this chapter, and please review if you feel like it :)_

_Trigger Warning: It's based off Victor Hugo, all pregnant women beware! LOL! XD_

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Chapter 2

A Monster In Paris

We turn our attention now to a time and place more pleasant than the home of the mourning mother of Reims. The year is 1482, the city is Paris, and the time is January 6th during the Feast of Fools.

It was shaping up to be a grand festival that year. The city was decked out in tinsel and there were traveling carts lining the streets. Drunken pickpockets and peasants free from the chains of propriety filled every street corner and public building left open in town. There was the smell of cooked meat and bread, the hustle and bustle of the crowd, and the laughter of those that hadn't had a good laugh since the harvest and its subsequent festival.

There are many characters of note at this festival, from the Cardinal of Bourbon to the homeless children running up and down the alleyways. One soul is not jolly however, and one place in this town is open to nobody. As the children run down the street they pass a narrow arched window that lines up perfectly with the road, completely unaware of its unhappy occupant.

This window led to the cell of the Tour Roland, a place where women who have lost those closest to them cloister themselves off and pray. There are several such places all over Europe at this time, but this one in the Tour Roland is better known to the citizens of Paris by its glib nickname; the rat hole.

Inside the cell there was no candle for light, no fire for warmth, and no food given by charitable souls. It was a festival day, a day for happiness and debauchery. The nuns that relied on charity like the poor creature inside this cell were often forgotten on this day. There was only one body inside the cell, a woman known respectfully as Sister Gudule, and more notably as La Sachette; the sacked nun.

She hugged her legs and shivered in her cold cell, not an unusual way to spend a cold January day for the middle-aged woman. Only 36 yet she had already grown old. Her hair was already gray and covering her thin bony frame. Her skin was already wrinkled. Her heart was already weaker than it should be. She blamed most of her age and misfortune on the gypsies, and the rest she blamed on a presence that was conspicuously absent on this grand festival day.

Gudule's silent misery and contemplation was interrupted when she heard some young men shouting out the window. Normally she would pay no mind to the outside world as it was content to ignore her, but the words they shouted and the rhythm that followed forced her ear to take notice.

"La Esmeralda! It's La Esmeralda!"

Gudule's brows raised and her tired eyes widened in anger. That was no normal name, and that jangling drumbeat sound was that of a tambourine. There was only one explanation for such oddities, and since it was a festival her suspicion was even more likely.

Upon running toward the window with speed she didn't look capable of, Sister Gudule saw a young woman, a gypsy girl, dancing with a pampered looking white goat with gilded horns. Now Gudule hated gypsies it was true. She never tolerated them wandering too close to her window. However, there was something about this particular young gypsy, something in Gudule's mind that felt stronger than usual. This gypsy was here to torment her, she just knew it. This one was especially evil, she just _knew_ it to be true.

Esmeralda meanwhile danced for the crowd of appreciative onlookers, unaware of the hag staring at her through the window. Esmeralda had just arrived in Paris to work for a large crowd on the day of the Feast of Fools since there was good money in it. Clopin Troullefou, the king of the thieves of Paris, had invited Esmeralda to stay upon seeing how well she danced and how pretty she was. Since she was currently alone she decided to take him up on the offer, and after this day she would officially be a member of the Court of Miracles.

Clopin of course had warned her only to go to street where he assigned her, but where he wanted her was too close to the river. It smelled terrible due to all of the vomit and waste being poured out into the river that day, and she noticed that not a single gypsy had claimed this prime spot she was dancing on now. She didn't understand why Clopin would give no one this territory, as it was close to Notre Dame, the town square, and the free buffet tables set up for the festival. Not to mention she had already made half a crown since she got here.

"Get away from this place, gypsy heathen!" A shrill voice screeched amidst the music and the clatter of her goat's hooves, "Accursed witch! They should hang you, gypsy witch!"

Esmeralda stopped her dancing, wondering where such hatred and mockery came from. She looked around at the crowd and saw no one behaving in such a cruel maner, and she pouted in dismay at her performance being interrupted.

"Burn that gypsy witch! See not your bonfire? It's right there!" The voice continued.

"Shut up, Sacky!" A university student, Robin Poussepain, hollered back at her.

The scholars chuckled at their own dismissal, and that made Esmeralda feel a little better. It was clearly just some harmless derelict causing the fuss. Esmeralda was probably going to be fine.

"I suppose La Sachette hasn't had her supper yet," Another scholar, Jehan Frollo, shrugged.

"Wait a minute, no one fed Sacky?" Robin asked, his blood running cold.

La Esmeralda watched this exchange between the two young men, the entertainer now becoming the audience.

"Whose job was it to feed Sacky!?" Robin asked in alarm.

"Well I'm not going anywhere near that place now!" Another boy piped up, "Make Jehan do it! He's the one that held us up at the bar!"

"I did not!" Jehan defended himself, but after a moment relented, "Okay I did, but it's not my problem! Find some urchin to send her some bread."

"Excuse me?" Esmeralda finally chimed in, "Why is everyone so worried? Is that old woman dangerous?"

"Well...kind of," Robin reluctantly replied.

"No one cares about that sackcloth covered nun. It's the monster that lives in there everyone is worried about," Jehan explained, "The rat hole is home to a demon that haunts La Sachette. She has to feed it or else it escapes and torments Paris. If no one has fed her today then that means..."

"The hunchback is loose," Robin finished the ominous thought for his friend.

* * *

Pierre Gringoire was a poet, one of the greatest lyricists of his generation if his own endorsement was to be believed. How could his festival performance go so wrong? First his morality play was prolonged by his actors not being able to find their costumes in a timely manner, then a gypsy beggar started calling for alms in the middle of the play, then some boorish Burgandean interrupted his much-anticipated mystery with some lousy pope of fools contest, and _then_ what few people remained for his magnum opus left when some drunken scholars shouted that a gypsy girl was outside dancing. By the end all that was left was some old man sleeping in a chair in front of the stage.

The nerve! First these ungrateful Parisians holler at him to hurry up with his mystery, and then when his actors deliver they wander off to stare at some ugly faces and some random Romani. It was an outrage, that's what it was! Pierre could have traveled to _any_ city to produce his mystery, but he had chosen his home city of Paris. They should have been lining the rafters to see him, yet he was abandoned for gypsies and a Flemmish hosier.

Gringoire's thoughts were quite self pitying as he sauntered over to the buffet table that had been laid out for the festival. Oh well, if he couldn't have an appreciative audience at least he could get some free food out of the deal.

As Gringoire made his way to the table he couldn't decide what he wanted of what was left. There was some delicious looking pork, some scraps of fish, lots of bread, and several hogsheads worth of wine and ale. He made his way over to the bread, but before he could reach it he noticed something odd. There was a hand reaching up from under the table cloth and taking a loaf of black rye bread and a half-emptied jug of plain water.

The poet chuckled at the sight. Some poor street urchin probably didn't realize the food was free today and was trying to steal enough for several days. He couldn't help but investigate the humorous situation and walked over to where the little scamp was hiding.

"Now listen here," Gringoire chuckled as he reached for the table cloth, "You don't have to steal that, good varlet! The food is free today. Come on out and-"

Gringoire stopped talking once he pulled back the cloth and got a good look at the body attached to the hand. Staring blankly back at the poet was the ugliest creature Pierre Gringoire had ever seen in his life or in his dreams. The creature under the table was hunchbacked, had one eye with the other covered over by a wart, had crooked yellow teeth protruding from big drooling lips, had small legs with huge feet, big burly arms, and red bushy hair that stuck out like flaming branches. He was as wide as he was tall, making him somehow look short yet imposing. That wasn't even the weirdest part however. The monster was dressed in a green linen tunic and doublet with beautiful yellow silk embroidery of a forest scene, brown leather shoes, and new looking yellow hoes. If Gringoire's overactive imagination had to guess, then this was some sort of evil wood sprite come to exact revenge for a wrong committed by the Parisians.

Before Gringoire could regain his composure the hunchbacked sprite lunged out from under the table and made a run for it; his arms loaded down with bread and water. Gringoire knew he should cry out and warn the citizens of Paris of this evil creature, but he was too dumbstruck. Even after he regained his composure he said nothing, believing it served Paris right for disparaging his play.

* * *

The gypsy continued her dance on the same street as before while the frat boys searched for the hunchback of the rat hole. Gudule couldn't stand it. That gypsy was mocking her! Despite her protests she couldn't get the gypsy girl to leave. All she got was some boy giving her a piece of ham (that he had taken a bite out of). Overall it was turning out to be a miserable day.

As the beautiful Esmeralda continued to perform Gudule's blood boiled more and more. She had stopped protesting however, as it was doing nothing more for her than making her throat grow raw with the cold and the strain. She wished she had a way to silence that dancing harpy, but she had none.

When Esmeralda held out her tambourine for coins many giddy men obliged and she smiled as she was rewarded for her performance. Gudule ground her teeth in rage at seeing those hapless people encourage that good for nothing cannibal to stay! Was Gudule's very existence not warning enough to them to stay away from these pagan child stealers? Was Agnes's death in vain? How could they not see?

After collecting coins from her dance Esmeralda called out "Djali, it's your turn!"

The goat then came to its mistress, and Esmeralda turned her tambourine on the ground.

"Djali, what time is it?" Esmeralda asked her goat.

The goat's hoof struck five times. It was indeed approaching five 'o clock. Everyone gasped in amazement, and then the audience clapped for the smart little goat and the pretty gypsy.

Then, amidst the crowd, a deep accusing voice shouted "There's sorcery at the bottom of this!"

This made Esmeralda stop her performance once again, and a wickedly satisfied smile crossed Gudule's face as she watched the Archdeacon of Josas, Dom Claude Frollo, denounce the gypsy in front of the crowd.

The severe look of the priest made Esmeralda shudder, and she quickly packed up her rug, tambourine, and goat and made to leave. Gudule finally allowed herself to leave the window, content that the gypsy was gone.

For the next few minutes she sat alone in the corner and stared at the little pink shoe across the room. Her poor dead Agnes! Sixteen years old she would be now! It just wasn't fair! Why had her beautiful perfect baby girl been taken away from her and replaced with-?

Just then twin doors that led from the cell to the outside world opened up, and a familiar stooped-over figure struggled to make his way inside with his bundle of food and drink.

"You were gone," Gudule said accusingly.

"I am sorry, Mother," Quasimodo said apologetically, his deep husky voice sounding like a perpetual cough, "I know festivals harden the hearts of the charitable. I brought food from the festival. Only the stale bread and some water, just as you prefer."

Gudule nodded, deciding to drop the subject yet not willing to thank the demon for running off without telling her. Quasimodo laid the bread on the hearthstone where a fire would sometimes be lit. He knew there would be no fire tonight however, as no one had thought to offer them a faggot during the festival season. The Feast of Fools was always hard on them, but both Sister Gudule and Quasimodo survived each season with quiet dignity and solemn reflection. She would spend her days praying for her daughter, and he would spend his days praying for forgiveness for whatever sin caused him to be born the way he was.

"How cold it is!" Gudule exclaimed in a rare moment of clarity.

"Here," Quasimodo walked over to Gudule and wrapped his arms around her so that they could keep each other warm.

Gudule, even after sixteen years of caring for Quasimodo, still didn't entirely like the idea of touching him. Despite the conscious part of her mind that wanted him to leave her alone to die, the more basic part of her huddled closer to the source of body heat offered to her. It was always like this in winter, yet every year she seemed to forget that she would need his help again.

"I saw a cat today," Quasimodo told her, "It's the one that lives near the DuBois house. The striped cat. I like how loud it purrs."

"That's nice," Gudule said quietly, clearly unable to pay attention due to her poor health condition.

"You should eat," Quasimodo suggested when he took stock of his mother's frail state.

"No," Gudule said dully, "I cannot eat. There was a gypsy near our home today. Thinking of them devouring my Agnes always makes me lose my appetite."

Quasimodo held her tighter to console her, but he knew it wouldn't help. He knew there was nothing and no one that could help her now. For as long as he could remember Agnes had been the specter acting as a shield between himself and his mother's love. He knew Agnes was a better child than he ever could've been. He knew his mother was kinder than she needed to be when she took him in from the heathens that left him to die. He knew he was a monster. It didn't matter though. He would give anything for his mother to be happy just once in her life. He lived for the rare moments when she smiled at him and told him he was good. That saintly woman and the six by six foot square room they shared was his entire world, and he wanted nothing more than to keep it to himself. He would never say it out loud, but he was jealous of Agnes.

The unhappy hunchback hated himself when he had these thoughts. His poor mother prayed every day for her dear sweet Agnes to return. Quasimodo knew God wouldn't listen to his monstrous prayers however, because he would sometimes pray that Agnes _never_ came back. If Agnes somehow magically returned, then his mother would kick him out of the house and out of her life. She only cared for him in hopes God would return Agnes to her for her piety and charity. If Agnes came back, then Quasimodo would lose his entire world, and he would probably die.

Quasimodo was too young to remember his gypsy parents, but he did remember the house they lived in back in Reims. Gudule had tried to raise Quasimodo in that home because it was the place the gypsies would likely go to return Agnes should they be so inclined. It had been a hard existence, even back then. Gudule had given up prostituion after adopting her new son so as to show The Lord she had given up her sinful way of life. She had made money with her embroidery, but it was hard to attract customers when everyone knew about the monster living in the house. She grew a small garden in the summer, but that did nothing for them once winter came as it always so cruelly did.

For four years she stayed in her family's home with her hunchbacked child. Paquette La Chantefleurie was a nickname she had long outgrown. She was no longer young and beautiful. She no longer had her voluptuous curves and pretty teeth. She was ruined, and she was mother to a gypsy's malformed demon.

Once it became clear that she didn't have what it took to survive with her son and that the gypsies likely would never return to her home, Gudule threw her gold cross into the river and walked with a then 8 year old Quasimodo to Paris. There she cloistered herself away in the Tour Roland, a place where she could focus exclusively on prayer and her own misery. It was unusual to raise a child in such a lonely place, but poor Quasimodo wasn't a child in the eyes of most Parisians. To them he was a being of pure torment, a demon to haunt Sister Gudule as a permanent reminder of her past sins. Even at 20 years old Quasimodo's experiences were so limited and his existence so devoid of joy that even his imagination was nothing more than a gloomy abstract.

"I hate her," Gudule suddenly said after ten minutes of silence.

"Who, Mother?" Quasimodo asked.

"The gypsy," Gudule replied in quiet fury, "The one they call La Esmeralda. She is no ordinary gypsy, my boy. She has come to torment me, I can feel it in my bones. When I saw her, I knew she was there to open the wound in my heart anew. No gypsies perform in front of my window anymore, but _she_ did. She tried to keep food from our mouths by making everyone forget we were here, and her and that bewitched goat have come to plague my existence. She will be back tomorrow, I just _know_ it."

"Do you wish me to rid you of her?" Quasimodo asked eagerly, "I can make her leave you alone, Mother. I can throw her out of the city, and you'll never have to see her again."

"She would come back," Gudule replied pessimistically.

"No, I can do this!" Quasimodo insisted, "I will rid you of her, I swear it!"

"Don't swear, Quasimodo. It's unscriptural," Gudule chided him, "You would really scare away the gypsy girl?"

"I will Mother. You know I can," Quasimodo vowed.

Gudule then turned to fully face her son and smiled almost lovingly at him.

"Quasimodo, if you can rid me of that gypsy I'll see to it you have a new shirt by the end of the week."

Quasimodo smiled, knowing that sewing new clothes was how Gudule said 'I love you'. She would save back donated money for new fabrics and threads, the only luxuries she ever allowed in the cell, but she never made anything nice for herself; preferring sackcloth fit for mourning. Every tunic she made and every piece of embroidery she sewed these days was only for her Quasimodo. The unfortunate man might've lived in poverty and misery with his mother, but he was probably the best dressed denizen of Paris aside from the king himself.

"Don't go now though," Gudule warned Quasimodo, "Wait until nightfall, when the drunks have found some nest to crawl in. No sense drawing attention to yourself. Now, have you eaten yet, boy?"

"No, Mother," Quasimodo admitted.

"Then grab some of that bread," Gudule ordered as she waved in the general direction of the food, "You need to keep yourself strong, boy."

Quasimodo smiled and took to eating his bread. He was really happy for this opportunity to do something for his mother. He didn't remember the gypsies, but he knew how they had treated him and his distraught mother. He hated them almost as much as Gudule did, and had already roughed up a few of them to keep them away from the rat hole. He looked for every opportunity to show his loyalty and usefulness to his mother. When he was useful she loved him, and for those few moments she wasn't clinging to the embroidered shoe of a ghost. For a few precious moments Quasimodo was the most important person in Gudule's life, which was all a misshapen beast like him could hope for in this life.


	3. Inconveniences

_Author's Notes: This chapter of "Accursed Wretch" reworks some chapters from the novel where Esmeralda had been the subject but not the POV character, and has now made her the POV character. It just feels like there is so much of her daily life that can add a new twist on a classic tale. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and please review :)_

* * *

Chapter 3

Inconveniences

The festival was still going on but was starting to die down as the sun set in the sky and everything took on a gloomy hue. There were many torches and candles lit to keep the festivities going, which served to cast shadows all around the citizens as they danced, drank, ran, and ate. Esmeralda had just finished her final performance of the night by the Seine River, and a gypsy man from her new tribe was playing the final high notes on his fife to signal the climax of the show.

Everyone clapped and then tossed some coins for the performers. Esmeralda and her partner for the evening then went about splitting up the money as the Parisians left for other attractions. Djali was sitting on Esmeralda's rug, which was going to make it very difficult to fold it back up for the night.

"Gracious, Fito! What am I going to do with my spoiled little Djali?" Esmeralda giggled as her goat gazed lazily up at them.

"Well don't kick it. Goats tend to fight back," Fito replied as he counted the money, "It looks like we made a good haul tonight, though I feel you should probably get a bigger share this time. After all, I heard you went to the forbidden square to dance. Not a very smart move."

"I don't know why everyone is so afraid of that old woman," Esmeralda pouted, "If anything that priest is far scarier than her. At least she can't leave her cell. The priest...I don't know what it is about him, but those eyes...those eyes belonged to an evil I cannot comprehend."

"Ah, you mean Archdeacon Frollo," Fito nodded in understanding, "Yes, he is a severe and prejudice man, but his power only goes as far as the church and the courts. He could recommend a harsher sentence, but as long as you never get caught he cannot touch you."

"You sound very glib about all this. I'm telling you that priest is a specter, a fiend. I hope I never see him again."

"A priest is the least of your worries, dear Esmeralda. You nearly called down a demon on yourself tonight."

"What? La Sachette's monster?" Esmeralda scoffed, "Hah! I've heard of such rumors before, and they rarely turn out to be true."

"This one is true," Fito warned, "La Sachette keeps a creature of pure malevolence by her side, and the target of her hatred is any gypsy that comes near her lair. You were lucky to avoid being attacked by it. There have been those among us that have encountered it, including Clopin, the king himself. Clopin gives us our territories for a reason, and you were most unwise to disobey him."

"It cannot be that bad," Esmeralda protested, "It's a busy street with minimal interference from the royal archers. You see how much money we made today, for just one day's work! As long as the priest is not there, then I see no reason why I should not return. After all, the old woman cannot leap from her window to grab me or anything, right?"

Fito the fife player then sighed heavily at the young woman's stubbornness. Why was it always so hard with new members of their tribe? It didn't matter whether it was thieves, beggars, gypsies, Jews, or cutthroats, they never seemed to listen.

"I cannot stop you, La Esmeralda, but I can offer one piece of advice, and if you are wise you will listen carefully," Fito said sternly, "When La Sachette starts cursing at you, you back away from the rat hole and dance at a further distance away. If she yells out the word 'Quasimodo', you run and don't stop running until you have made it back to The Court of Miracles. Understand?"

"Quasimodo? Isn't that one of their holidays?" Esmeralda asked in confusion.

"Quasimodo is the name of the brute that lives in the rat hole," Fito explained.

"Why is he called by such an odd name?" Esmeralda asked.

"No one knows. It's not like La Sachette has friends to confide her secrets in," Fito snorted, "No, all of her secrets belong to herself and to that pet wolf she dares to call Quasimodo. In their language the name means 'approximation' or 'almost'. I do not know why a monster would be named something so innocuous. Just know that once that name is spoken you have mere moments to escape with your life. I would prefer if you simply stayed away from the rat hole, but if you are stubborn then at least be prepared."

"I will," Esmeralda promised, "I'll join you back at the court soon. I have to get Djali off my rug and leashed before I can leave."

Fito smiled and nodded before he handed her the money she earned. She placed it in her plain burlap bag, and as she did this Fito's eyes wandered to the green bag with a glass emerald hanging from around her neck.

"Do you keep something more valuable than money in that purse?" Fito asked as he pointed to the green bag, "It's very pretty."

"This bag was made by my mother before she passed away," Esmeralda explained, "She adopted me, but she told me that my real mother was alive and that someday I could see her again. The charm in this bag is my link to my birth mother, and as long as I remain pure I will one day be able to find her again."

"Ah, I see," Fito replied noncommittally, "Well, I hope you find everything you're looking for. It's good that you arrived to live in The Court of Miracles. Our people's numbers grow smaller with each passing season. It seems the bourgeois are determined to wipe us away from the face of the earth. We need to look out for each other, to keep each other strong. I must return now. Will you be alright going home alone?"

"I'm not alone. Djali is with me," Esmeralda said as she petted her goat and smiled, "Besides, I have been alone for five months now. I can handle myself. Thank you though. Be careful."

"You too, La Esmeralda," Fito said as he tipped his hat and bid her goodnight.

Esmeralda spent the next few minutes caressing Djali and watching the people as they passed her by. Truth be told Djali was well trained enough to get up off the rug at Esmeralda's command, but Esmeralda just wanted a few more moments to herself. Soon she would return to that tavern known colloquially as The Court of Miracles and be surrounded by strangers and noise in an enclosed space. She loved the open air and the life of the festival, and just wanted to soak in a little more before she returned to her new life as one of Clopin's subjects.

As Esmeralda looked out she saw a few faces she had seen earlier in the day. There was the poet that had authored the mystery. He was huddled by the bonfire across the street and trying not to freeze to death in his too-thin clothes and threadbare hat. Some idiot from a second story window then threw some water out the window and put out the fire, causing much grumbling and shouting from those gather round. She then turned toward the Place de Greve off in the distance and saw those same two drunken scholars that had panicked about the sacked nun's monster. They didn't look too panicked now as they hooted and hollered from their place sitting on the pillory. The pope of fools procession was parading down the square with some elderly wino sagging off the litter and dropping his fake wooden scepter.

Esmeralda sighed wistfully at all the merriment that would soon be gone. She snapped her fingers then and Djali stood up, allowing her mistress to fold up the rug and tie it to the goat's back. Fito was wrong, Djali wasn't a fighter but rather a loving sister to the lonely gypsy girl.

She walked down the streets until the area of the festival was nothing but a muted sound and dim light in the distance. Without even thinking she went down the street where the sacked nun lived, but once she realized where she was she stopped. The old woman wasn't yelling out her window now. There was only silence on the street as Esmeralda stood there staring at the narrow window.

With trepidation, Esmeralda found herself walking toward that awful window toward the home of that shrill old woman. She knew this could be dangerous, but the poor girl was still young enough to have an adventurous spirit and insatiable curiosity. She had to know if there was really a monster in La Sachette's cloister.

Ordering Djali to stay behind, Esmeralda's tiny feet were silent as she slowly made her way to the dark and lonely window. It was almost dark now, and Esmeralda at first couldn't see too clearly in the window. Part of her feared the sacked nun would jump out of the darkness and claw her eyes out. It wasn't too far fetched a thought. The nun _was_ mad, after all.

Gulping silently, Esmeralda squinted to see what was inside the cell. As her eyes adjusted she saw a long thin shape on the floor that turned out to be La Sachette. She was sleeping. There were clothes strewn about the tiny room (which was surprising for someone who only wore sackcloth) and what looked to be a stone for a fire, but beyond that there was nothing. No monsters, no spirits, no wolves, nothing.

Smiling at her own foolishness for believing rumors, Esmeralda went back to her goat and together they started walking home.

The further away they got from town the darker the streets became. Soon the dark blue sky turned black, and many candles were blown out for the night by those who had stayed home and avoided the festival altogether. Esmeralda couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding as she walked along winding and unfamiliar streets. Paris truly was like a maze to the uninitiated.

Suddenly Esmeralda heard soft footsteps behind her, and she quickened her pace. She knew it was silly to think whoever it was would be following her, but she had the distinct feeling she was being watched. Djali's hooves clattered as the goat kept up with her, and Esmeralda wondered if she should look back to see who it was. For some reason the first thought that came to her mind was that horrible priest, and the second thing that came up was someone could've seen how much money she made and wanted to steal from her.

Esmeralda turned a corner and ducked behind a building to see who could be following her. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest as she tried to remain calm and quiet. Her breath sounded too loud, but she didn't know how to make it quieter. As she peered around the corner she saw the tall and thin-to-the-point-of-starving figure of the poet who wrote the play. He was looking around in confusion, like he was lost, and his doublet had been torn to shreds since Esmeralda last saw him.

The poor girl sighed in relief. The poet was harmless. Everything was fine.

Esmeralda and Djali then started walking leisurely down the shadowy streets once again. Every now and then the shadow of a cat would move along the light of the few remaining candles on the street, but this was nothing to trouble one's self over. Esmeralda was sure that with the mystery of the 'mystery' poet solved she would be safe on her trip home.

She was almost home as the look of the pristine Parisian houses gave way to the dilapidation and degradation of the ghetto. The Court of Miracles was close now, and the evening was quiet now that the festival was nearly a mile behind them.

Esmeralda then stepped on something solid she hadn't seen before, and as she backed away to see what it was she realized it was a large foot in a leather shoe. Suddenly, out from behind the corner of a burned house, the owner of said foot stepped in front of her. It was a creature that looked somewhat like a gnome or a troll, and he leapt out and grabbed Esmeralda before she could figure out what happened!

The creature ran away with her, and Esmeralda screamed for help for all she was worth. The goat tried to ram the offender, but the man barely slowly down as his legs were assaulted by the gilded beast. Esmeralda feared for her life now, never having seen such a terrifying abomination before but hearing many rumors from her tribe about spirits that carry unsuspecting people away in the night.

Pierre Gringoire, who we will admit had been following Esmeralda up to this point, saw what was happening with the girl and the living grotesque. He knew that man. It was the same one from under the buffet table. Pierre mentally kicked himself for not having warned anyone about that fiend being on the loose. Now that beautiful fairy queen of a woman was going to pay the price for his shiftlessness.

For probably the first time in his cowardly life, Pierre charged toward the dangerous situation in an effort to fight off the monster and save the damsel. He got to the hunchback and tried to pull the panicking Esmeralda out of his grip. The hunchback looked at Gringoire in mild annoyance, and then backhanded him so hard that Gringoire fell backward and passed out cold in the mud!

"NO!" Esmeralda screamed at seeing her rescuer thwarted.

The hunchback then adjusted Esmeralda so that he was holding her to his chest, and then placed his burly hand over her nose and mouth. She felt panic swell stronger in her chest as she struggled in vain to breathe.

"Make one more sound," The hunchback roughly whispered in her ear, "And I'll snap your neck."

The hand cutting off her air supply was then released, and Esmeralda gasped for breath. The hunchback then adjusted her in a bridal carry style and continued to walk further away from the city. Esmeralda was terrified to say anything, or to so much as breathe too hard. His threat sounded serious. She didn't know what this monstrosity wanted with her, but her imagination conjured up worse and worse scenarios. He was probably going to kill her, or possibly torture her. If it truly was an evil spirit she might go to a nether world of eternal torment. She had to find a way to save herself from this ghastly predicament.

A few more minutes passed in tense silence. They had passed the turnoff for The Court of Miracles and were heading toward the city border. Was she being taken to where he would dispose of her body? Was she going to be raped? Was this thing conjured up by the demonic priest?

As they passed by an inn with a candle still lit, the light coming from the window showed the monster's face in harsh yet contrasting clarity. Esmeralda closed her eyes, afraid so much as looking at him would cause further misfortune.

Finally, Esmeralda could take no more, and ever so quietly she asked "Please...what are you going to do with me?"

"You're leaving Paris," Came the reply from a voice that sounded so much like the living embodiment of the grave.

"Leave? I can't!" Esmeralda protested, "Please, I must stay here. My tribe is here."

The statement was only half true. She had only recently joined Clopin's tribe, but it was still the closest thing to a community the poor wanderer had left.

"You _will_ leave," The hunchback growled pitilessly, "Or you will die."

"Is there no other way?" Esmeralda whispered as tears flowed down her cheeks, "I have money from my performance today. Three crowns and ten farthings. They're yours if you just let me go, please!"

"Will I be forced to beat you, gypsy witch?" The hunchback asked harshly.

"I have done nothing to you," Esmeralda sobbed, "Take pity on me, for I have no family left except for my tribe. I don't know how long I can survive alone. Please don't hurt me!"

The hunchback stopped walking then, and looked down at the gypsy girl. Esmeralda shut her eyes tight to avoid making direct eye contact with the monster. This was surely the end. He was going to kill her now, on this lonely road where Parisians slept and no one would notice. No one would even miss her.

"You torment my mother," The hunchback said to her, "You make a mockery of her pain. If I let you stay in Paris, then I might as well not return home, for I would have failed her."

Esmeralda opened her eyes then, but she looked away from the hunchback's face. She was beginning to understand...

"You're La Sachette's..." Esmeralda caught herself before she said 'monster', but wasn't willing to utter the word 'son', "Is this because I danced on her street today?"

"You torment her," The hunchback repeated.

"I'm sorry!" Esmeralda quickly exclaimed, "I'll never dance there again! I will never again show myself to La Sachette. Please don't kill me. I'll do anything you want. Please!"

She felt the hunchback's, Quasimodo's, arms sag with the strain of holding her, and before she knew it he had helped her to her feet and turned away from her. She was stupefied as she stood on the unfamiliar street and tried not to directly look at the retreating form of the sacked nun's pawn.

"Gypsy," Quasimodo said without turning to face her, "Let this be your warning. You escaped with only your time lost, but if you ever darken our doorway again, then only God himself would be able to save you."

Esmeralda hugged herself against the chill of the wind blowing on the road, and waited until she couldn't see the hunchback anymore before she started walking back toward The Court of Miracles.

* * *

It took twenty minutes to make it back to her tribe's hideout, and fortunately for Esmeralda her beloved goat Djali had made it back ahead of her. Despite the terror of the evening Esmeralda was no worse for wear, and she was grateful to have made it back unscathed.

When Esmeralda tried to enter the tavern she noticed there was a large crowd already gathered there, and they were jeering and laughing at something near the center of the room. At first she had trouble getting through to see what was going on, but then when the others noticed she was there they greeted her and kindly made room for her. Despite being a new member many of the other thieves and beggars already considered her a sister or a daughter, an attitude for which Esmeralda was very grateful.

When Esmeralda got to the front of the room everything had gone silent. Apparently her presence had interrupted whatever had been going on before. She saw that there was a makeshift gallows in the center of the room and Clopin was standing on stage with a Parisian man. The Parisian man had a noose around his neck and a terrified expression on his face. Esmeralda immediately recognized him as the poet that had tried to save her from the hunchback.

"Are you going to hang this man?" Esmeralda asked Clopin apprehensively. She still didn't know Clopin Trouillefou well enough to completely trust him.

"I will unless you take him for your husband," Was Clopin's blunt reply.

Well, _that_ was unexpected. Esmeralda vaguely remembered that this tribe of Romani practiced a form of barter marriage that allowed a prisoner to go free if they joined the vagabonds and/or married a member of the tribe. She looked around at the other women, but apparently no one wanted him. She looked up at the poet with such sympathy as she took in his tattered clothes, his starved looking face, his knocking knees and shivering arms, and most of all the terror etched on his face. His gaze practically begged her to save him.

"I will take him," Esmeralda declared.

Suddenly the room erupted with cheers for the new couple. Clopin found a jug that had some stale water left in it and gave it to Esmeralda. This marriage custom was practiced among her old tribe as well, so she knew exactly what to do. She drank from the earthenware jug and then handed it to Gringoire. He of course just stared at the jug like he had never seen one before.

"Drink from it," Esmeralda whispered to him.

Gringoire obliged, and then Clopin ordered him to throw it on the ground and break it.

_Please don't shatter too much. Please don't shatter too much_... Esmeralda thought anxiously, knowing each piece broken was a year of marital bondage to the hapless poet.

The jug broke, and Clopin said "Brother, she is your wife. Sister, he is your husband. For..." He looked down at the broken jug, "Four years. Go in peace."

Gringoire smiled from ear to ear, and the couple was led to Esmeralda's room by a procession of drunken gypsies and thieves. Esmeralda couldn't believe what she had just gotten herself into. She had to take him though. His life was on the line and he had been hurt trying to save her from certain doom earlier that night. There was no way she could allow him to perish. The problem remained though...now what?

When they made it to her room Esmeralda wasn't sure how the lanky man would act around her, but he seemed so dazed by his experience that he didn't say a word. He would look at her every now and then, and then look down at the holes in his doublet. He looked at his hands, and then at the ground.

The man was so quiet and unobtrusive that Esmeralda eventually forgot about him altogether. She played with and petted her Djali, and she rearranged the stool in her room so she would have more of a walkway. She found some bacon strips and cooked them over the hearth. She also gathered some wrinkled apples and black rye bread from a burlap sack, and then located a jug of beer. She sat at the table and started eating, every now and then giving Djali a handful of bread crumbs. It was just another peaceful evening after a long day of strange and frightening events.

The peace was interrupted however when her so-called husband immediately marched over to the table with all the authority of a soldier; a gait that seemed absolutely ridiculous for such a weak specimen.

"What do you want of me?" Esmeralda asked confrontationally; not liking the way he moved so quickly toward her.

"How can you ask me that, adorable Esmeralda?" The man asked, his tone husky and full of passion, "It is I, Pierre Gringoire, the man that you have laid claim to, and the man who has pledged his heart to you!"

"I don't know what you mean," Esmeralda replied coolly.

"What?" Gringoire asked awkwardly, "Am I not yours? Are we not married? Why else would I be here in this place of mystery and intrigue?"

"Should I have let them hang you?" Esmeralda asked rhetorically.

"Oh. So...you don't love me?" Gringoire simpered; embarrassed by the misunderstanding.

"No!" Esmeralda exclaimed in offense, "I don't even know you! I only wished to save your life, as you attempted to do for me earlier."

"So, I am not as triumphant in love as I thought," Gringoire sighed defeatedly, "Then what was the point of breaking the poor jug?"

"The real question is why were you following me tonight?" Esmeralda asked as she placed her hand on her hip.

"Oh. You noticed that," Gringoire laughed nervously, "Well, I, um...that is to say, I was hungry. And I thought maybe, just maybe, I could dine with you and your tribe."

"Well you'll be dining here from now on," Esmeralda pointed out, "Since you have henceforth become a vagabond just as we are."

"Indeed," Gringoire replied, a small smile gracing his features.

Gringoire then looked at the table full of old yet servicable food, and Esmeralda smiled and motioned for him to sit down. It seemed his passion had turned to appetite as he scarfed down as much as he could shovel into his mouth. A few moments later he realized Esmeralda was staring at him with a rather wry and sardonic air, and he gulped down his bite of food sheepishly.

"Oh! I should ask, my dear Esmeralda!" Gringoire suddenly exclaimed, "How did you ever escape that horrid hunchback?"

"He let me go," Esmeralda told him, "I still don't know why. He belongs to the sacked nun, and was trying to throw me out of the city."

"Yes, I've heard tale of that cyclops since returning to Paris," Gringoire replied, "It's all my fault. I knew he had escaped the rat hole, but I didn't say anything because I couldn't be bothered. I am so sorry this happened to you, mademoiselle. Do know that now that you are my wife I shall be twice as vigilant in both protecting you and providing for you. You shall see that I am not a bad match in marriage."

"This is not a real marriage," Esmeralda insisted, "I only agreed to this to keep you alive, but the truth is I do not intend to lose my virtue until I have at last met the mother I never knew."

"Um...I don't follow," Gringoire replied blankly.

"It is what my adopted mother told me," Esmeralda explained, "That as long as I remain a virgin, and keep this emerald green bag with me always, that I will one day find my birth mother. One day I shall have a family and a home, and only then will I be ready to search for a real husband."

"Oh," Gringoire replied, visibly deflating, "Well then, if you do not want a husband, then could we at least be friends? Do you know what friendship is?"

"Of course I do!" Esmeralda replied in offense, sick of townies that assumed gypsies were incapable of feeling, "Friendship is like brother and sister, like two fingers on the same hand. To mingle without touching."

"And do you know what love is?" Gringoire asked.

"Ah, love! It is to be two and yet one," Esmeralda sighed longingly, "Two humans transformed into one angel. it is heaven."

"Do you love someone?" Gringoire asked curiously.

"At the moment, no. But maybe someday," Esmeralda replied dreamily, "I am not against the notion of love. I merely wish to find the family that lost me before I set about creating a family of my own."

"Esmeralda? Where do I sleep tonight?" Gringoire asked abruptly, looking around the room at the one straw pallet and the zero anything else for him to sleep on.

"You can have the bed," Esmeralda offered, "I will sleep in the room of one of the women tonight."

"And tomorrow?" Gringoire asked.

"You are a thief now. Steal a place to slumber," Esmeralda replied teasingly.

Gringoire laughed at her gaiety, and Esmeralda found that he was a surprisingly easy person to talk to. Perhaps this sham marriage wasn't doomed to bitterness and her sleeping with a dagger under her pillow for protection. Perhaps Esmeralda had done the right thing by saving the life of Pierre Gringoire after all. Either way, it was a rather strange wedding night.


End file.
